When It Matters
by Undone Relic
Summary: Comicverse, X-Treme team. So many things to say, so little breath... Gambit's POV


Note: English is *not* my first language. A thousand thanks to my beta, Belladonna, for her patience and corrections. Any errors still left are my fault, not hers. Thanks to the lovely people who sent feedback when I first posted this.  
  
When It Matters  
  
Bonehammer  
  
--  
  
So, that's the way it is, in the end.  
I'm struck with the sense of wholeness of it all. The world has shattered, and the pieces have all fallen into place. Every riddle is solved, and while the world keeps on turning relentlessly on in noise and confusion, we stand in this quiet corner as if we had been carved away from time.  
For the first time in years, maybe for the first time ever since father banned me from the house of my childhood with a stern face and a broken voice, I feel in place. Sated. Done.  
I have this eerie feeling that this very spot on Earth had been awaiting for me since the day the world was created: the unceasing drizzle, the faint autumnal scent of coal smoke and rotten leaves would've had no meaning without a proper audience.  
And what a diligent spectator I have become.  
My sight has been sharpened from the chilly rush of the adrenaline and I'm aware of every pebble in the concrete, every single hair-thin crack in the brick wall next to me.  
A glimpse of red catches my attention. She's kneeling in front of me, her gloves brushing my face. She has never been that beautiful, with her gleaming emerald eyes and blushing cheeks, that restrained grace that comes from having to be constantly aware of your own body, of how it moves in a dogfight, in a crowded street, in the hold of a lover.  
Her lips move; I know what she's saying, but I can't hear a thing. My ears are still tingling from the blast, and there's this odd feeling of something warm and tacky trickling down inside my head; eardrums must've gone. All I hear is this laborious breathing of mine, like wind through a dried cane, and much as I try to force myself to speak, I am unable to make a single sound. All that ever comes out of my mouth is blood, thick and black as fuel oil, and these small wet sticky sounds, like wading through the mud. Dark lady's peculiar way to inform me that I won't be able to talk myself out of it, not this time.  
Just now, when it matters. When it's not spitting sarcasm in the face of an enemy or taking the edge off a teammate in the Danger Room. Right now when there's something I need to ask her. It's suddenly become crucial, a qualm that's consuming me like a smoldering fire. Please, ma vie, I have to know, was it all worth it? Please hear me, answer to me, tell this liar a lie.  
I don't feel much pain, which means it must be bad. And I'm freezing and shaking, which is worse. Hate the chill. There's more warm stuff running in a slick rill down the line of my jaw and that's the only place where I'm not feeling cold.  
Bish takes out my arm with an offhand pull, brisk like an accomplished warrior, tight-lipped, impassive; rips my sleeve open, squeezes my arm until the veins stand out in a bluish relief. There is the slightest pinch, then a golden heat is crawling under my skin and in a minute I'm floating on a butterfly cloud. Thank God for morphine.  
Her face nears, her lips disclose in response to my unspoken plea. I know what she means. I have been craving for this since the first time I knew she could; I nearly had it once. It's perfect, always thought there couldn't be a better way. A merciful void that would rise to engulf me, my conscience finally sated, my soul erased, cleansed to immaculate blackness.  
Yes.  
Please.  
She puts out a tense smile. Her lips move to reassure me, to let me know that everything will be fine, that we will never part.  
That we will become one.  
No.  
NO!  
I raise an arm, I stop her. It's not easy. My arms are limp and weightless, my hands drift in the air like inexperienced feathers. Turn my head to my Stormy in a mute request; she reads the panic in my eyes, the determination in hers, and drags her away gently, steadily, whispering the right words, the ones I am unable to say, and she surrenders, lets herself be pulled back and held. Stormy's looking at me, pursing her lips, swallowing her tears; even her grief is so dignified, so conscious. She will be there, she will take care of her, for her, for me, for the sake of that time in Cairo; she lets me know, and I feel relieved.  
Please, ma petite. Forget this. Forgive this thief, he didn't mean to steal your soul.  
How selfish of me. I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't mean it, you can't be wanting this. You scare me. Hear me. Please.  
My gloves are soaked, grimy, but still intact. I kiss my trembling fingers, reach out and press them against her lips. As always, it's as close as we can get. But it will have to do. As it always did.  
My hand trembles and slides off and leaves a deep red smear, like rouge on her cheeks. Ouch. Hadn't thought I'm bleeding. But now she knows and she's still smiling at me so bravely and she nods and it's all I ever needed to know.  
She reaches out again, lifts me up from the ground and holds me like I was a baby. I wish I wasn't so numb, I wish I could hold her back, but my arms won't listen to me and all I can do is drown in the tide of sensations. The delicate pulse on the ivory curve of her neck, the scent of green fruits and honey, the silk caress of her hair, and the -  
- tear in her uniform, the warmth of her bare skin against my jaw as I rest my head on her shoulder.  
We are touching.  
Nothing has happened.  
I can't move, I'm afraid that a motion, a breath could break this blessed spell. But in that same moment, she starts, suddenly aware of my gory stubble scratching against her bare shoulder.  
Maybe her will overcame her fear. Maybe there's just not enough left of me for her powers to grasp. We don't know how it happened; we don't care either. Sage will sort this out; doesn't she always?  
Relief undoes me, I can't hold back the tide. Tears are gushing from my eyes, I let them roll down and soak her chestnut locks as she rocks me to sleep, back and forth, in time with my fading pulse.  
I knew you could, ma petite. I have always known that in the end, just when it really mattered, you woul-  
  
-- The End -- 


End file.
